Tales of Religious Abandon...

         The other day I had coffee with a friend, and we ended up, in our conversational meanderings, discussing our religious histories.  Ultimately we realized that though our individual journeys have taken us to diverse places, we now see life and its spiritual applications quite similarly.

          I would not presume to share my friend’s story, but I will attempt to enlighten you on some of the finer points of my hodgepodge-ness in religious diversity.

          It really began with my mother’s family—all Irish-drinking--and fun-loving!--Catholics. (I add the “d” word since it brings a greater sense of inclusiveness in their love of the Irish moonshine.)  At a mere six weeks of age, this family kidnapped me to be sure I found my way to the holy water of Catholic christening. 

          A year later, my father’s family--all good, upstanding, Republican protestants—you know, the kind who, after John F. Kennedy was elected knew the pope would reside in the White House within weeks of the inauguration—stole my fat, wiggly body to go before their Presbyterian minister to make sure I didn't end up in pergatory.

          Naturally, on these two occasions, while I was the star, the primary focus, and the diva of the devout—I was also oblivious to any meaning of these industrious attempts at my salvation from eternal damnation.

          By the time I was twelve, we lived in a small town in Ohio.  One cannot ever refer to this village as progressive since there are currently only 200 more on the census than during my childhood years.  That and still just .05% ethnic diversity—you get the picture...  I chose to attend the Methodist church since the pastor loved kids and arranged for hayrides and picnics, or fun get-togethers at the church most every weekend.  A great sales pitch for young people!  When asked if I’d like to join the church, what could I say but of course!   My Catholic mother attended the service—which, by the way, I giggled through because the sprinkled water ran down my neck.  My Protestant father did not attend—I think he was called to the couch for a nap or something.

          At twenty-something years of age, a friend asked me to a Bible Study.  I most reluctantly went…  However about a year later, a Baptist altar call had my name on it—well, that’s what they told me, and who’s not to believe a minister?   This time it was immersion.  No giggling when one’s head is under water.

          A few years later my 5^th baptism occurred—into Seventh-day Adventism.  Needs creep into our psyche and we search for ways to find peace or comfort or some kind of tangible answers.  Some work, and some do not.

          All this pontifical activity seems so long ago.   Now the only sprinkling or immersion I participate in is done with a bar of soap or a backyard hose.  And while it’s easy to make jokes about my diverse religious background, I learned from them all.

          The hallmark of my journey now, however, is about recognizing and honoring my own inner wisdom—not touting religious labels and beliefs.  At the end of each day, I hope I've made choices to live with integrity, compassion, joy, the willingness to listen, and the ever-present drive to continue my journey to authenticity. 

     Your work is to discover your world and then with all your heart give yourself to it. 
                                                                                                                -- Buddha